Dance of the Storm
by Echoing Fantasy
Summary: There is a storm in the room, but no one can see it. All they see is the lady in red.


_Dance of the Storm_

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_"Many assassinations occur during dances; the click and stamp of heels easily masks the flick of a switchblade. It's all in the rhythm – playing dress-up is only part of it."_

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It's October thirteenth, and the Vongola are throwing a true Venetian-style ball, complete with masks and elaborate costumes and secrecy. It is here, hidden in the swirl of gowns and the flash of false smiles, where the women curtsey and the men bow, that the Storm waits, hidden. No one that parades in through the door knows that she is a Storm, of course. They know only that she is beautiful, and that she is unmarked.

In her hand is only a fan, fancy and lacy, and oh-so-delicate. It smells faintly of summer-grown cherries and rose petals. The gown she wears is coy, flirtatious in an innocent way. No skin is shown that should not be shown; her shoulders, pale and bony, bare themselves, but that is all. Her neck, which is so very elegant and unmarked by any lover's kiss, has a choker of red rubies and beautiful white silver wrapped around it.

This woman, this beguiling temptress, does not hang onto any man's arm, or even stay near any male. She drifts freely, allowing herself to be seen and watched by all. She moves through the crowds with a sort of demure grace that the men of the mafia can appreciate and watch without fail. It's the kind of grace the women hanging off their shoulder or onto their arm or begging for some new little toy lack; it's a grace the emphasizes a woman's power in a different, more subtle way. And the males, riled and wanting to rut, see the beautiful woman, and wonder why she hides her beauty behind such simple clothing, why she does not bare her breasts and hitch her dress a bit higher, or even perhaps let her hair - which is a gorgeous shade of red - down. They wonder, and they think _she will be mine. I will sweeten her temper with gifts, and she will be mine. _

But the males are ignorant; they see only what the crimson firebird hidden beneath the beautiful glaze _wants _them to see. They do not see, for example, the single, simple blade in the fan, or the deadly poison coating that blade. They do not see the way she takes small steps, pushing her chest out a bit to emphasis her small 'assets'. They do not see the fiery, fierce red eyes that linger on the golden gaze of Vongola Primo; the eyes which ask questions and beg for instructions, _orders. _Powerful orders that, when put in her hands, will rumble and thunder and strike with no mercy to the opposition. This beauty, this delightful creature gliding through the ballroom with such grace, is under the command of one of the most powerful men alive, and has taken painstaking risks to be so beautiful, knowing her beauty will either help or hinder her tonight.

_Step step click._

A rich sonata has started up and everyone is pairing off. The crimson woman finds herself facing a familiar face and curtseys to a man of Japanese origin with long black hair tied back in a ponytail who bows politely back and takes her gently to the floor, where he dances in light, easy steps that has everyone mesmerized. After that is a blond man with cold calculating eyes who smirks lightly upon seeing her. The smirk is not seen by anyone save for the crimson female that he leads around the floor in a single dance before releasing her to a man with green hair and a single eye.

After that there are more, many many more, and she dances with them all, but never speaks, no matter how many men attempt to woo her or get even a name out of her. She is mute, unable to be beguiled by sweet words or poisonous gifts of devotion. Her eyes linger only on one man, and that is the man who has not danced with her, but will once the storm has passed. Once the tempest has gone to work and eviscerated his enemies, only then will the sky move onward, coming forward to embrace her with his body and lead her away, whispering for a quiet room to themselves where they might speak of other things, simpler things.

But for now, the woman in red - Lady Tempesta - has curtseyed once again and is being led away by Primo Chiavarone, who knows the secret but won't tell. The men in the ballroom are envious, the women furious. The bitch will get her due, they think, unaware that the woman is a viper in disguise. They will splatter that pretty dress with mud and destroy her mask and rip out her hair, so that she will be too ashamed to go back into the ballroom, too sad by the loss of her dress to come anywhere near the men who put their hands on their trophy wives' flesh day after day, simply because there is nothing else to do.

_Step step __**click.**_

There is a man now, coming towards Lady Tempest and asking her to dance. A quick and light dance has started up, one that requires everyone to constantly duck in and out of one another's arms and keep their eyes ahead, lest they run into someone. It is this dance that the Lady has been waiting for. She curtseys and apologizes to the man, saying that her feet are rather sore, and if she could just take a small breather, she will be back with him in the next song. But unlike the others, this man does not relent. He nods and does not speak, but the hunger in his gaze assures the storm that if she leads, he will follow.

And so she steps back and turns, hurrying up the side staircase and towards one of the private rooms, taking a deep breath and removing her high heeled shoes, because this is going to be a messy business, and there is no reason to ruin such a good pair of shoes when they aren't even hers. She takes a rest on the bed, rubbing her heels and toes with her back to the door, ignoring the light footsteps and slight panting outside that tell her the man has followed. Instead, her mind drifts back to those eyes, those golden eyes, promising relief as soon as she completes her duty.

The door opens and she ignores it, focusing on the eyes and what they offer, rubbing circles on her feet until the heat behind her becomes too much. She puts her foot down, as if to stand and makes to turn around, only to find a larger body pinning her to the bed. The man leers down at her, eyes overcome with lust, and hands eager to feel her flesh. The bad thing about this plan is that she never shaved her legs, and so when he goes to stroke downwards, he gets a bit of a surprise; the good news is that the brief moment it takes for him to hesitate gives her an opening to close her fan and thrust it up between his ribs and into his heart, killing him.

He gasps and clutches at her wrist, holding it tight enough to snap. She cries out, not intentionally, and suddenly a flare of power is there, a hand wrapped around the man's, pulling it off her and forcing the bastard onto the ground. The man lays still.

"Your plan sucked. It would have been quicker to use mine." 'Lady' Tempesta snaps, her voice going from the high pitch to a lower range, a hand coming up to rip the false hair away as well as the mask. Don Primo smiles, a faint hint of amusement in it.

"But Lady Tempesta, the plan went over so well. After all, our enemy is dead, and I won the bet of the evening." He shows a handful of gold coins, and the former lady feels her - now his - jaw drop.

"_What?_ You bet against me? You're own right hand man? Damn it, Giotto!" He curses in Italian, throwing the wig and the mask across the room before getting up and beginning to strip, not caring that his boss is watching him. "How much did you win?"

"Nearly an even hundred. I would have made it more, but Alaude informed me that any more would be breaking the rules he set down for this particular event. You know, I think he also won a fair amount." The leader mused, allowing his eyes to drift down the toned backside of his friend, silently appreciating how lithe G's muscles were compared to the rest of him.

"I don't care, you two are assholes and I hate you. Fuckers. Damn it, why won't this thing come off?" He pulls at the corset, eager to get the death trap off and learn how to breath properly again. Giotto chuckles behind him and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Relax. Let me."

In one or two quick tugs the corset is undone and G is holding onto the bed post as his lungs take in twice as much air as before. "Elena wasn't kidding when she said these things would make some good training tools. _Damn, _my lungs are sore." he rubbed his side.

Giotto made a simpering sound. "Shall I kiss it better, my dear G?"

G snarled at him. "You try it and I'll beat you within an inch of your life." However, he does allow his partner to rub at the spot tenderly for a few moments before he smacks the hand away. "I am never dressing in drag again. I don't care _how _many enemies we have sneaking into our house. From now on, Alaude is the only one allowed to cross-dress. You got that?"

Giotto laughs, and keeps laughing, even when G finishes getting dressed and leads the way back to the ballroom, where he is greeted by Alaude's smirk and Asari's friendly calls.


End file.
